Kitt Peak (8 page)

Lincoln made a face. "Can't remember ever eating prairie dog . . ."

Bartow said, "Tasty as anything! Tried for a snake, but couldn't catch one of the critters. Maybe tonight . . ." He turned to the prairie dog carcass, humming to himself, and turned it on the spit.

Lincoln made another face at Thomas who shrugged.

"When in Rome . . ." Thomas said. Lincoln continued to grimace.

~ * ~

But the meal was good, and Lincoln found himself licking the bones on his plate, and wishing there were more.

He was about to tell this to Thomas, but when he opened his mouth to speak, Thomas held a hand up to quiet him. The Lieutenant was watching Bartow with concentration while the half-breed arranged the bones on his own tin plate in a meticulously careful fashion.

Finally, Thomas said, "What are you doing?"

Bartow looked up, smiled. "Nothing, chief. Just a little precaution is all. Something my daddy told me about, a long time ago. Reading the bones. Injun thing."

"Bartow, do you know anything about an eagle on Kitt Peak?"

Bartow looked up quickly. His eyes clouded over momentarily, then he smiled. "Hell, no, chief."

"Nothing about young girls being killed?" Bartow shook his head, keeping his smile. "Like I tol' you, no, chief."

Thomas continued to watch as the scout held two slivers of bone up above his plate and let them fall. The man's face clouded over as they landed.

Suddenly Bartow flipped his plate into the fire, watching the bones scatter.

"What did they say?" Reeves asked, while Thomas looked intently on.

"Nothing at all," Bartow said. His demeanor had changed, and he no longer smiled. "Something, I think," Thomas said. Bartow waved a hand in dismissal, rose, and pushed out his bedroll next to the fire. "What did they say?" Lincoln asked again. Bartow lay down with his back to them. "Only something 'bout death," he said, and
said no more.

The next day dawned clean and dry. The sky was as high and blue as any Thomas had ever seen in West Texas. Bartow was already packed and ready to ride, though Lincoln was just stretching out of his own bedroll. The fire, Thomas saw, had gone out, leaving a bed of ashes. If they wanted coffee, they would have to start a new one.

Bartow said, "We should get moving."

"Why?" Thomas said. If he didn't have his coffee, and if he didn't shave, he would not feel as if the day had started.

Bartow shrugged nervously. "Just should." "What's eating at you, Bartow?" Lincoln said.

Bartow gave Reeves a solemn look. "Nothing. Just think we should get on with it." Thomas packed his bedroll, and, as Lincoln bent to tend to the fire, he prepared his shaving kit. "We'll leave soon enough. Get down and have coffee with us."

Bartow took a sliver of jerky from his pocket and tore at it unenthusiastically. "Think I'll ride a little ahead."

Thomas looked at him. "Suit yourself. But don't ride on more than an hour ahead."

Bartow nodded grimly and set off.

"What's eating him?" Lincoln said.

"He's superstitious," Thomas said. "But now we have to make sure that his foolishness doesn't get in the way of what we have to do."

In his mind, Thomas cursed Marshal Murphy lightly for burdening him with this extra problem.

An hour later, Thomas and Reeves were ready to ride. Thomas felt ready for the day now; his clothes, which had been neatly folded the night before, had been put on in military order, and his belly was full. His face was shaved.

With some annoyance, he had noticed that domestic life had put a little slack in Lincoln Reeves. But he was mildly critical to the Trooper, thinking back on his own creeping slovenliness back in Boston.

"Do you miss the Army, Trooper?" he asked Reeve as they set out.

Lincoln pondered the question. "Can't say I do."

"Are you sure? Wasn't there a telegram you were supposed to send home?"

"Damn!" Lincoln swore. Back in Tucson, he had promised himself to send the telegram, and then forgotten again. "She'll kill me, Matty will."

"I doubt that," Thomas said. "But she will
be worried. That's why I sent it for you." Lincoln beamed.

"Thank you, sir."

"Told her you missed her terribly."

"I do!" Reeve protested.

"I'm sure you do, Trooper. But I'm also sure you miss this life, just as I do."

Again, Lincoln pondered. "To be truthful, I do. But a farmer is what I am now, sir. And when this is over, I'll go back to farming.

Thomas smiled. "I told her that too, Trooper."

When they hadn't caught up with Bartow after an hour and a half, Thomas began to worry. But then they saw the half-breed, waiting for them at the top of a rise. As they got closer they saw him sitting in his saddle, pulling on a piece of jerky, solemnly watching them approach.

"I been thinking, chief," he said to Thomas. "Yes?"

"Well, I'm going to have to leave after tonight. I got business back in Tucson to take care of."

"You'll take us into the reservation?" Bartow sat up taller in his saddle. "I promised to do that, and I will. But tonight I'm leaving."

"Fair enough. But I want you to tell Murphy what you did."

Bartow chewed his jerky thoughtfully. "He won't be happy."

"That's not my problem, Bartow." Bartow nodded. "Reckon it's my problem, then, chief. I'll do it."

Bartow turned, and Thomas and Lincoln followed.

They reached the reservation two hours later. It spread out below them in the cradle of two mountains. One of them, the taller, Thomas took for Kitt Peak. He noted that Bartow shied away from it, taking them far to the west, approaching from the base of the other mountain.

Thomas had been in many Indian reservations, but he had never seen one quite as depressed as this one. These were a beaten people. There were more wooden shacks than
teepees; outside many were naked, dirty children playing in the dust. Down the middle of what served as their main road, a ditch filled with foul-looking water ran. Saguaro cactus grew here and there. Outside the few teepees, old women sat weaving baskets. Their clothing was a mixture of traditional and the white man's, scarves and dirty dresses. No one smiled.

It was a large reservation, and they rode for fifteen minutes before reaching their destination, a large wooden building with a sagging, shingled roof. On its porch, every other plank seemed to be missing. The word
OFFICE
had faded, though someone had recently whitewashed the word
COUNCIL
in crooked letters above it.

Inside, the accommodations were no better than what they had seen. A table missing one leg, supported by fruit cases, stood just inside the door. On top of it were scattered papers, some with United States government markings on them. Thomas picked one up. It was a newsletter, from Washington, talking about new programs for education, housing, and the distribution of clothing and foodstuffs. It was a
year old, and the more Thomas read, the
more he saw how evasive and complicated it was. Nothing had been promised before 1905, and only if a myriad of forms were filled out
and properly filed.

Thomas put the paper down.

Along the back of the room was a counter. Behind that, mostly empty shelves held a few blankets and a lot of cooking utensils. More boxes of cooking utensils stood open on the floor in front of the counter.

A few more tables, missing one or two legs and supported by empty boxes or crates, were scattered around the room. A few old men sat at them, staring into space. Along the far right wall were a few cots; on one of them, a figure lay curled, uncovered, face to the wall, eyes open.

There was a back room. An old man came out of it to wait at the counter for them. There was some sort of recognition between the old man and Bartow; when the old man raised his hand listlessly, though, Bartow said nothing.

"Here for more jerky?" the old man asked thickly, offering a tired smile. His eyes, half-vacant, turned on Lincoln and Thomas.

Bartow said, "Marshal Murphy sent me with these two. They're looking for Bill Adams's daughter."

The old man's eyes went to stone.

"You heard about Adams and Tahini?" Bartow offered.

"We heard. They're burying Tahini down
in the city, the mining company's taking care of it. We said fine. We have our own burial today."

Bartow's interest was heightened he chewed on his own jerky faster. "Who?"

"Kohono-si. He was cut up like Tahini." The old man waited for Bartow's reaction.

Bartow said, "I threw the bones last night."

"So," the old man said. Then he added, "You belong here with us."

Unaccountably, Bartow smiled, showing his teeth. In a moment, he seemed to have re-turned to his old self.

"Be damned if I do!"

"That's no way to speak of the dead." "So what!"

The old man looked off into the distance. "You will understand some day. You cannot leave us behind. Especially not now."

"Bull-spit." Bartow heaved a sigh of relief, and turned to Thomas and Lincoln with his smile intact. "Let's go about our business, chief," he said to Thomas. "I can stay with you now."

The old man frowned.

"Le-Cato in?" Bartow asked the old man.

"The Keeper of the Smoke is at his home, preparing for a trip."

"Fine." Bartow turned to leave, then came back to the counter.

"Think I will have some of that jerky, if you don't mind!"

Frowning still, the old man sold him what he wanted, and they left.

"Got to understand," Bartow said to Thomas as they mounted and rode slowly to the edge of the village, "I thought I was a dead man until five minutes ago. This bone thing always works for me. The rest of it" — he waved his hand — "is bull-spit. But that bone thing worked the night my daddy died, and the night my momma died. And now..."

"I take it you're not close to your tribe?" Thomas said.

Bartow laughed. "Not likely, chief. I went to Tucson. Never really cared for it."

"But that's not the way Abby Adams felt? Is that why she came back here?"

"Couldn't say," Bartow replied. His face clouded momentarily.

Thomas said, "I think we should attend this funeral. "

Bartow looked at him unhappily, then said, "If you want, chief."

The Keeper of the Smoke's house was better looking than the rest, but not by much. It looked as though at one time it had been very cozy and neat, but time, and lack of maintenance, had made the eaves sag and the front door hung at an angle. Le-Cato himself sat on the front porch in a chair, out of the sun, staring at the street. Nearby, his horse was being packed by a young squaw, who ignored them.

"Hey, old man!" Bartow called.

Le-Cato looked at them, startled. "You are a dream," he rasped.

"Hell, no, Le-Cato, we ain't no dream! Got to talk to you, is all."

The old man had regained his bearings, and sat staring at Thomas.

"Yes," he said, "we will talk." He turned to the young squaw. "Granddaughter, leave us."

Without looking at them, the young girl stopped what she was doing and walked away.

But after a long talk with the Keeper of the Smoke, Thomas felt as though he had learned nothing, except for the fact that the old man had nothing to say to him. He spoke in circles. But despite all that, Thomas felt the man's keen interest in him. Thomas learned nothing of Bill Adams's daughter, and nothing about the eagle, but the old man more than once put his thin hand on Thomas's knee, as if testing to see if he was real.

When they left, the old man seemed much happier than he had been when they arrived, and as they stepped from his porch he once again reached out to touch Thomas.

"You see that?" Bartow said with a laugh as they rode off. "0l' Le-Cato thinks you're a dream come true!"

The funeral of Kohono-si was short and nearly devoid of ceremony. The man's body was carried down the main street of the village on a litter, and laid on the ground in front of the council store. The Keeper of the Smoke chanted a prayer, and then the litter was lifted again, to be carried outside the village limits and buried.

"I'd like to examine that body," Thomas said.

"Sure thing, chief!" Bartow said. He stepped forward, told the litter carriers to lower the body, which they did. There was a murmur from the Tohono O'otam until the Keeper of the Smoke said, "It is all right."

Thomas stepped quickly forward and looked the body over. It had, indeed, been mangled in a fashion similar to that of Tahini. This time the killing wound was a gash across the chest, at heart level. Again there were slashes on the hands and arms, as if the man had tried to ward off his attacker.